I’m going to spend the day here helping my mom since I know she’s making a batch of cinnamon buns.
“Trina is here!” Clara screams at no one in particular.
I can’t mask the smile that takes over my lips.
This is home.
It doesn’t matter where I go to sleep at night because this sugar-scented brick-faced building in Brooklyn has always felt like my home.
I did my homework in a back room here. I learned how to bake chocolate cake and almond cookies in the industrial kitchen, and I watched a few of my older siblings fall in love here.
My sister, Falon, pops into view from the kitchen. “Triny!”
I lunge myself at her.
Her arms offer me a sense of comfort I’ve never found with anyone else.
She’s only older than me by a few years, but I’ve always looked to her for guidance and advice.
“Fal,” I whisper her name as I relish the embrace. “When did you get back to town?”
“Last night,” she says as she pushes back to look me over. “I’ve missed you.”
I’d say the same, but I don’t think I can get the words past the lump in my throat. I’ve never kept secrets from Falon, but I have to now. I can’t tell her that I married my boss for a short stint to fuel the dreams of a dying man.
It sounds great in logic, but the situation itself is beyond illogical.
It’s complicated, and that doesn’t scratch the surface of what happened between Graham and me last night.
“What’s new in your world?” she asks with a tilt of her head. That sends her brown curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Is there anything I should know about?”
“You should know that I’m craving a cinnamon bun.” I laugh. “I’m here to help make them.”
“I’m on board for that.” She wiggles her left hand in the air. “I need to take off my wedding rings first. Remember the time I lost them in the croissant dough?”
I watch silently as she slips the rings that hold so much meaning to her off her finger. Within the hour, they’ll be back where they belong.
They’re a symbol of her deep and unbreakable bond with her husband, Asher. Mine are nothing but a representation of the depth of my deception and the knowledge that I chose to marry a man who walked away from me last night during one of the most vulnerable moments of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Graham
“You’re here early,” I comment to my wife as I pass her desk en route to my office.
Trina glances in my direction. “I have a busy day.”
It’s nothing compared to mine.
My assistant stacked meeting upon meeting into my calendar for today. Most of those magically appeared during the past two hours.
She’s spent her time making sure that I won’t be hanging out here today.
She avoided me with masterful grace yesterday, even going so far as to arrange a catered dinner for Lloyd and me last night.
Bette was at the helm of that. I have no fucking idea why Trina chose to recruit Lloyd’s spy to serve an under-seasoned halibut dinner to us, but Lloyd cleaned his plate like it was his last meal.
Thankfully, it wasn’t.
He was up at the crack of dawn this morning trying to hunt down my wife to thank her for her thoughtfulness. She’d already left for work.
If I hadn’t heard her moving around in my bedroom last night, I would have assumed that she had one foot out of the door of our marriage, but she was there padding around on the hardwood floors before I noticed the exact moment she shut off the lights to go to bed.
My gaze was pinned to the small sliver of light that crept under the door that separated the two of us.
I debated whether or not to let myself into my bedroom to talk to her about what happened in the library the other night.
For once, I acted like the gentleman Lloyd thinks I am, and I stayed put.
I stop before I reach my office door. “We should talk.”
Trina’s gaze darts to my face. “You don’t have time to talk.”
She has a good point.
According to the jam-packed schedule she sent me via email, I have precisely twenty-two minutes until I need to be in a meeting at an office in midtown.
“I’ll make the time. After all, it’s what I do best.” I smirk because old habits die-hard, and watch jokes along with puns that involve time are an integral part of working for Lloyd Abdon.
Her lips stay in place. There’s no smile, but at the same time, she’s not frowning.
I’ll take that as a win.
“We don’t need to talk,” she tosses that at me with a final gaze before she diverts her attention to her laptop screen.
“We do,” I counter.
Her arms cross over the light blue blouse she’s wearing. “About?”